Father's Day

It seems, now, I will never find

your shoes, father, let alone fit in them,

though I still hope to follow the cold trail
of adventure in your smile, your spark
that landed me here, where
even though I am a father in my turn,
my footing is far from certain.

Rumours rustle in the visible

branches of my family tree. An uncle

traced you, found a married man. But no

he did not (or maybe it slipped his mind).

A cousin heard you might have lived in Medicine Hat ––
Medicine Hat! Such a marvellous name
I tried it on for size, for a while.

A French Canadian soldier, my mother said,

neglecting to mention which war

claimed you, so I grew up thinking

World War Two, realising eventually

it ended a decade too early.

Tentative questions raised that flicker of pain,

slaps from a self-interrogation.

Have I other half-brothers? Sisters?

How many of your whip-tailed seeds made it home?

I suppose you’re gone now, burned

or buried, dog-tagged in stone,

but until I can mark, encircle

wherever you hung your hat, you’ll remain

enchanted, undead, prone, your face

furiously shifting and running, fast-
forwarding weather, the everyday
sky convoys, sea’s military colours,
crowd-faces in the street, on TV, armies

of old men –– all and none

remind me of you. My known
unknown, how have you shrunk, grown?